


til death takes us both

by Sintharius



Series: Sergei Alekseyevich Dragunov [2]
Category: Tekken
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, graphic description of medical procedures, trigger warning: blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-10
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2020-10-13 20:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20588783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sintharius/pseuds/Sintharius
Summary: A father's battle to save his son.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Assassin_1868](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Assassin_1868/gifts).

> Disclaimer: I'm the wrong kind of doctor (not involved in internal and external medicine) so this may not be 100% accurate.
> 
> Takes place before [an angel's landing](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18683980).

Dragunov hisses as he presses a hand to his abdomen.

His gloved hand comes away wet with blood.

The knife has sliced into his flesh and left a deep incision on his side. Its wielder, now cuffed and restrained by security, is hissing and cursing him for her failed mission as she is being dragged away.

It was supposed to be a routine mission. High profile person targeted by extremists, Spetsnaz command decided to send their best agent – the infamous White Angel of Death - for both protecting the man and catching the assassin. They have hoped to capture the assassin and interrogate her for information on her employers, and possibly take action before they can threaten the Motherland’s security.

When she discovered that her target had protection detail, the woman had come at him with a knife. Dragunov had engaged her, and managed to subdue her after receiving several slash wounds to his arms and one to his abdomen – result of her trying to get around him and at her target.

Once the security team is done with her, she will be handed to Spetsnaz. His job here is done.

Dragunov quickly inspects his wounds. They are a little deep, but nothing too life threatening; some bandages should keep him together until he can get proper medical attention.

At least the target is safe and the assassin is captured. A few scratches are a small price to pay for a job well done.

He heads to the theater’s first aid room, before stripping out of his dress coat and shirt – it’s going to be a pain getting the splotches of blood out of his clothing, and if it fails he will have to request a new one – and starts bandaging his wounds with what supplies the room has. He’ll just make sure to have them compensated once he gets back to base.

The white cloth is soaked with more red than he was used to, but he ignored it.

***

“_Status report?”_

_“Mission failed, sir. Our agent encountered resistance. She was captured.”_

_“By who?”_

_“Spetsnaz, sir.”_

_“Silence her. I will report this to the partners.”_

_“We’re on it, sir. And… our agent was able to wound the White Angel of Death. He was on site.”_

_“…Very well. Dismissed.”_

***

He starts feeling lightheaded half an hour into the flight back to base.

Said feeling is something he is familiar with – blood loss. He had only gotten into bad shape a handful of times, but that feeling when his body is giving out on him is something he never forgets.

The wounds should have stopped bleeding, at least-

When he looks down, the bandages on his wounds are soaked with red. More blood is starting to soak into his already bloodstained coat, and he can feel the bandages on his arm sticking to his skin.

A shiver runs through him. It’s suddenly cold in here-

His hands are starting to feel numb.

***

The assassin – her hair and clothes in tatters, her arms bruised from fighting her captors, her hands in cuffs – is staring at the Spetsnaz agents in front of her with a deranged smile.

_“You never know what is waiting for your precious White Angel, bastards._

_He’s going to die._

_Slowly. And painfully.”_

The agents interrogating her showed no reaction, but she can practically taste the flurry of action outside of the room she is imprisoned in.

“_Where’s Captain Dragunov?”_

_“...He’s on a helicopter back to base, sir.”_

_“Call the pilot and reroute to the central hospital. Request medical assistance on landing. Make sure he makes it through.”_

_“Yes sir.”_

***

Confusion. Then panic.

Dragunov quickly steels his mind against the panic descending on him, forcing himself into rationality. Panicking won’t help him and might even hasten his death through the stress.

He tries to think through the creeping haze of exhaustion and pain, while struggling to stay awake.

Something is preventing the bleeding from stopping. Probably whatever the blade was laced with to try and kill the target if the assassin failed to deal a fatal wound.

He’s alone on the helicopter other than the pilot, who is completely unaware of Dragunov’s problem right now. They won’t arrive at base for another hour, and he’s not sure how long he has at the rate he’s bleeding out… and Dragunov is pretty sure he is going into shock.

If he doesn’t get medical attention soon… he will die.

In the end it wasn’t an opponent that took his life in a direct fight, but instead he was poisoned and bleeding out in the back of a helicopter. How ironic. The White Angel of Death getting an uneventful death.

The blood loss is sapping what little energy he had left, and does not seem to be stopping.

…He can’t move. He can’t even speak.

His limbs have given out on him, and he can feel the chill creeping in through the numbness.

Dragunov smiles – grim and resigned. The assassin might not have been able to take out her target, but she had managed to take down another target that is equally valuable – if not more.

He should have been more careful. Instead he has doomed himself to a slow and excruciating death.

He leans back on the bench, and surrenders to the chill and exhaustion.

_Dad, I’m sorry._

Everything goes black.

***

“_Pilot, Dispatch.”_

_“Go ahead Dispatch.”_

_“Reroute flight path to Moscow Central Hospital, priority one.”_

_“Acknowledged.”_

The pilot keys off the comm, wondering why does he have to head to the hospital. Captain Dragunov has requested an early flight back to base, and probably won’t appreciate his ride being hijacked – even if it’s from command for an important purpose.

“_Captain?_”

No response.

He decides to chance it and quickly glance over to where the Spetsnaz agent is sitting, just to check on the man-

His eyes widened at the sight of Dragunov lying on the bench, pale and unresponsive. Blood is soaking through his dress coat and drips onto the floor.

“_Shit!_”

He had never changed direction of his helicopter so fast.

***

_Meanwhile, at Moscow Central Hospital…_

The phone in the lead trauma surgeon’s office rings three times before it is picked up.

He’s annoyed. More paperwork has been piling on him since morning, and he has been trying to finish them on breaks between the various operations that never seemed to end. How did Russia get so many trauma victims to create a lot of work for him every day? And that’s not counting the various military personnel that goes through him for all sorts of things.

He may have retired from being a field medic, but his affinity for the military still remained; they still call upon his expertise in times of need. Including the one and only White Angel of Death – Spetsnaz deems him valuable enough to them that only the best care goes into their top agent, not that they know who Dragunov actually is to him. And he had never let his relationships interfere with his work.

Now? He can only hope the phone call is quick enough to not waste any more of his time.

Before he can question who is calling him at this hour and interrupting his work, a familiar voice stops him in his tracks.

“_No need to respond. Your kid’s in trouble, and he’s heading to your place.”_

The person on the other side hangs up.

His blood runs cold.

Only one living person in Spetsnaz knows of his true relationship with Russia’s White Angel of Death, and they occasionally give him information on Dragunov’s whereabouts as he is deployed throughout the world. If they said his son is in trouble…

The surgeon stumbles over and sits down on his chair, before rubbing his face.

_Don’t panic. Stay calm._

_The White Angel of Death needs the assistance of one of Russia’s finest surgeons. The loving father will have to take a backseat until his son is no longer at death’s door._

Rapid knocking on his door breaks him out of his introspection. He pulls on his white blouse as he heads to the door, mentally prepared to save another life.

A nurse is standing at his door, papers in her hands. Her cap is askew, and her face is reddened from exertion. She must have come running to his office. “_Doctor-_“

“_Yes?_”

“_We- there’s a soldier that just got admitted._” She pauses to catch her breath, before leaning in and dropping her voice low. “_I think it’s the White Angel of Death._”

Even through the emergency, he can still hear the tiniest part of excitement in the nurse’s voice.

The White Angel of Death is a popular topic of admiration in the hospital, considering his legacy in the field – and outside of it, when he comes to the place for medical attention. His son seems to be oblivious on the fact that many people find him attractive… which doesn’t really bother him at all. What Dragunov chooses to do on his free time is none of his business.

What worries him more is that said soldier is currently getting admitted to one of the biggest trauma departments in the entirety of Russia. And apparently in enough trouble to warrant a warning call from their mutual acquaintance.

“_He’s being transported to operating theater 3, doctor._” The magic seems to have worn off, and the nurse snaps back to attention.

“_I will be there in a moment._”

She nods, then heads off. Papers fluttering as her feet take her away.

He closes his office door and runs down into the hallway leaning to the operating room.

***

Footsteps and the grinding of metal on the ceramic floor tell him he’s close.

He takes a moment to compose himself, before stepping out into the open to inspect the patient.

His heart plummets at the sight.

Dragunov is lying on a gurney in his blood drenched dress coat, white as a sheet. Blood is starting to seep out into the white cloth beneath him. The nurses are putting in IVs and assessing his wounds – and the Spetsnaz agent just lays there. Still and unresponsive.

It’s… not like him. Not at all. Something in him flips uncomfortably at the thought that the White Angel of Death might actually be dying.

No, not today. He’s going to damn well try and take Dragunov back from the cold hands of death.

He forcibly tears himself away from the sight of his son, and heads into the staff room to prepare for what is likely one of the most important operations in his entire life.

When he heads into the operating theater, geared up in scrubs, Dragunov is on the operating table.

It feels too familiar for his liking.

A group of assorted medical professionals have gathered in the theater. Two nurses are cutting away the dress coat with knives – they couldn’t afford to take it off the normal way, and the piece of clothing is already ruined by the amount of blood soaked on it. He’ll just have to make sure his son knows what happened to the poor thing later, as a nurse cuts away the stiffened cloth with the largest patch of blood-

-to reveal bandages, soaked thoroughly with dried blood. Dragunov had actually administered first aid and bound the open wounds… and yet somehow that did not stop the bleeding, if the amount of blood present was anything to go by.

Dread grows in the pit of his stomach.

The anesthesiologist – one of their best as well, having been grabbed in the middle of his lunch break to work on Russia’s finest agent – is working on keeping their patient alive. Their gazes meet, and he nodded towards the surgeon.

It’s time.

***

The bandages are finally removed. A slash wound… looks like from a knife, or some equally sharp object. Further inspections revealed that the cut has nicked a minor vein, but no large vessels. Most of the damage is contained to the muscles and skin.

So why was the bleeding not stopped?

He starts to work on patching up the torn open flesh, while keeping an eye on Dragunov’s vitals. Tachycardia, low blood pressure…

Dragunov is in shock. Hypovolemic shock – typical as a result of severe non-stop bleeding.

He can only hope that the anesthesiologist can manage to keep his son from dying on the operating table long enough for him to patch up whatever wounds that were causing all the problems.

At that moment, it feels like time itself has slowed down and his focus narrowed to the patient. He’s hyperaware of his gloved touch on skin, how delicate the person under his knife is. His hands are steady as he weaved threads through skin and muscle, sewing tissue up like how one would mend the torn edges of a coat.

No mistakes allowed.

Footsteps, then a resident runs up next to the table with another blood bag. She whispers to him, in a very low voice.

“_We’re running out of his blood type, doctor.”_

Great. Another complication he doesn’t need. “_Ask the team._”

He trusts her to know what she needs to do. Hopefully it’s enough.

The wounds are still bleeding, although whatever the anesthesiologist is doing seems to have slowed down the process.

He wonders if whatever that was used to cut Dragunov has something that prevents blood clotting – he knows that his son doesn’t have any clotting disorder. But if someone is really out for the White Angel of Death’s life, then using a laced blade to secure the kill is not out of the realm of possibility; Dragunov has a tendency to just soldier through wounds until the mission is done, sometimes nearly forgetting he’s even wounded. Severe bleeding would be quickly fatal to someone that receives injuries frequently – like Dragunov.

He doesn’t want to think about how he came to that conclusion.

They need to know what’s poisoning Dragunov, and administer an antidote if possible. Otherwise they’d just have to try and keep him alive until whatever it is can work its way out of the agent’s system.

Hopefully the other agents confiscated the knife or whatever it was as evidence. He could use that right now.

Out of the corner of his eyes, he sees a nurse cleaning the floor – the same one that called him to the surgery. He waves her over.

“_Who brought him in?”_

_“Spetsnaz command, doctor.”_

_“Call them, tell them to test whatever was used to wound him – specifically look for anticoagulant agents. Request antidote if possible.”_

She nods and hurries out of the room.

The hospital has a direct line to Spetsnaz should they – or rather, he - need to deal with them on behalf of their agents. He has lost count of how many times he yelled at whatever officer on the other line when they wanted a barely recovered agent on a mission immediately.

But now… he would rather be dealing with command’s stupidity if it means his son lives.

***

At some point he has lost track of time, and he wasn’t sure how long the procedure has been going on.

His nerves are on edge. The clinking of scalpels and needles, and the beeping of life support equipment breaking the silence only seems to make it worse.

The open wounds have been dealt with, though Dragunov’s life is still hanging on the line. They still need to deal with the agent that’s messing with blood clotting, and hope their patient doesn’t expire before they get to that point.

The resident, bless her heart, has managed to procure more blood from somewhere – probably another blood bank, or the medical personnel donating their own. God knows they can use it right now.

At that moment, the back door of the operating room opens and the nurse he sent to contact Spetsnaz slips back in. She hands over several vials of medication to the anesthesiologist, before returning to her work of cleaning the floor.

He quietly exhales. Once they get the poison dealt with, the healing process can begin once they finish up dealing with the aftermath of a massive hemorrhage event.

Everything will be just fine-

-until the monitor screams at them. Ventricular fibrillation.

His mind kicks into overdrive.

“_He’s going into cardiac arrest!”_

Of course Death has to do one last attempt at taking his son away.

“_Start resuscitation, now!_”

He’s not a religious man, a life time of dedication to life-saving science has long beaten out the notion of any higher power entity existing in the world. But in that moment, he silently prays even as he mentally counts Dragunov’s erratic heartbeats tracing across the screen. Like some kind of mantra.

Right now, it’s the only thing that keeps him calm as he starts trying to revive his son.

_Come on, Sergei. Stay with me._

A doctor starts on defibrillating shocks as he steps back. His hands quiver with minute shaking from all the adrenaline that just got dumped into his brain, and he clenches his hands into fists.

There’s no flight here. Just fight. Fighting Death for a life, and said life happens to belong to a person who is important to him. To Russia, too, but mostly to him.

And he’ll be damned if he let Death takes all of it away.

***

It feels like an eternity, but it was just a few minutes before Dragunov’s heart sets back into a comfortable rhythm, no longer strained by the blood loss.

Quiet sighs of relief fill the room.

He gives the patient a quick check. Whatever the nurse brought back had managed to counteract the poison he was inflicted with, and all the open wounds have been patched up. Given time, rest, and perhaps more blood transfusions, he will eventually make a full recovery.

Everything is over.

Fatigue crashes over him as the adrenaline dies down. He leans against the wall of the operating room – in his regular shirt and pants, having changed out of his bloodied scrubs - and watches as the nurses shipped Dragunov to intensive care.

The other doctor in the room pats him on the shoulder. “_That was incredible. Our country owes you a medal, doctor.”_

He shakes his head. “_It’s nothing.”_

“_You saved Russia’s best soldier. I don’t think that counts as nothing.”_

“_That’s what we do every day. What’s one more?”_

The doctor snorts. “_You’re too humble for your own good sometimes, my friend.” _

There’s a clinking noise, and he realizes something metallic is being deposited in his hand. Dragunov’s dog tags. The nurse cutting off his clothes must have taken it off before the surgery. “_When he wakes up, you should give this back to him. Give him the chance to thank the one that saved his life.”_

He watches the doctor leaves the room, before tracing a finger over the tags. He knows what was printed on the tags. Dragunov’s name, his army ID number, blood type and Spetsnaz affiliation. He could recite the whole thing by heart at this point. But the idea of giving Dragunov back his tags is touching, if only as an excuse to check on his son.

He snorts at the idea of commendation.

Truth be told, he never saw the entire procedure as saving a soldier.

Just a father fighting Death for his son.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *starts beating iPathos with a link*

When Dragunov returns to consciousness, the first thing he noticed is the light. Or the absence of it.

It’s dark. Some blue-white light spills under the edge of a closed door, but his room – or wherever he is - is bathed in darkness. Someone has taken care to turn off the lights, seemingly preferring to leave him in the dark.

The second thing he noticed is the feeling of hospital scrubs on his bare skin. He has been in medical care enough times to recognize the slightly scratchy feeling of patient scrubs whenever he has to wear one.

But if he’s in hospital scrubs… does that mean…

He’s not dead? Or did he die after all, and this is some sort of weird purgatory similar to a hospital… not that he’s religious. Having a doctor and scientist for a father knocked any notion of religion out of him long ago.

…Or something happened in between and he’s captured. He could very likely be in hostile territory right now.

The last thing he remembered, before blacking out, was being in a helicopter heading back to base. He had hoped to hold out with his injuries until he can get back to base and get checked over properly... but whatever was on the knife had put an end to that plan.

He moves his hand a little, and some tingling pain shoots up his arm. He can’t make out the entirety of his arm, but there’s something that feels like an IV in the crook of his arm, and cloth bandages wrapped around his biceps. Somewhere vaguely in the vicinity of a slash wound he remembered having come from the poisoned knife. It seems there are bandages on his other injuries as well, as he can also feel cloth shifting on his abdomen when he tries to turn to his side.

Dragunov gives up turning to his side the moment he feels the slight pull of stitches. Better safe than sorry.

He feels weak. Like he had somehow spent days in bed sleeping- which, given the extent of his wounds, he might actually had. He has no idea how long he was asleep, either.

If he really is captured, then he is in no condition to fight. He will have to wait for whoever that got him here and try to pry information out of them… though said captors would have been oddly merciful to have patched him up - he knows that most of his enemies preferred to see him dead, either for failing their operations or just being a general pain in their asses. And he has a lot of enemies, too many for him to keep track.

Other than his vague situation, it’s… comfortable. The room is cool enough to be soothing, but not cold. The darkness is easy on his still-sleepy eyes, and he appreciates whoever that kept the lights off. His wounds don’t hurt as much, though there’s still a slight stinging that he can ignore.

Even his hair doesn’t have the greasy feeling that comes with several days of not showering, and he can feel the strands spilling over the pillow and down his shoulders. He was evidently taken care of.

Only one person he knows would go to such lengths for him… and he’s willing to bet that the man has somehow gotten winds of his problems. The man’s contact within Spetsnaz goes deep, and being under his father’s care sounds much more comfortable than being in the hands of a stranger.

***

The door clicks open, and someone walks in. Dragunov can’t make out who it was, shrouded in the darkness against the weak light from the outside – other than that they’re tall and quite broad so likely a male - but he hopes it is someone friendly. Someone he can get information from.

There’s a click, and soft light fills the room. He winces at the change from darkness to light, before his eyes adjust.

Then he hears it. Quiet, almost like a whisper.

“…_Sergei.”_

His father.

His Angel of Mercy.

His eyes find his father’s warm gaze, then the older man rushes to his bedside. A hand gently touches his face, and he turns into the tender touch as he basks in the warmth and scent of pine and spearmint. It’s familiar, calming, and he can feel his worked up nerves easing.

He's in Moscow Central, in the care of his father. He's safe.

“_Dad…”_

It takes a lot out of him just to talk. He reaches out with his good arm and closes fingers around his father’s hand, taking comfort in the close contact.

His father sits down on a chair next to his bed, his hand still touching his son. He squeezes Dragunov’s fingers, firm but gentle. “_We nearly lost you on the table… Your heart almost stopped.”_

So he was close to death again. He’s not surprised – not the first time it happened – but-

Is that… tears? His father’s eyes are glimmering with unshed tears.

Dragunov finds himself internally panicking. He didn’t want to make his father cry, damnit!

“_Dad… I’m so sorry._”

At some point his fingers have left his father’s hand and started wiping away the tears at the corner of his father’s eyes. He didn’t realize it until he is doing it.

It was not his intention to be seriously hurt and make his father worry, but such is an occupational hazard that comes with being a Spetsnaz agent. Much less the White Angel of Death, whose life is spent fighting up close and personal in the enemy’s face. But this… he almost died. He knew he would have, if it wasn’t for his father’s timely intervention.

Dragunov does not know what to do. He has never been great at emotions, comforting people even less so – he was the one seeking comfort from his father when he was younger, and he had never had any other relationships that involved taking care of others. Comrades on the field not counting.

In that moment, he decided to place his father’s hand on his chest - over his still beating heart. The very proof of a life he saved.

_I’m still here. Alive, because of you._

***

Dragunov is sitting up in bed and making his way through some chicken soup.

He was asleep for three days straight, his body having focused so much energy into recovering from the stress. Now? He’s fucking _ravenous._

He can’t wait to get out of the hospital and back to their little family home in the outskirts of Moscow. Where he can actually recuperate with good food and no officer breathing down his neck about the work piling up on his imaginary desk somewhere. As much as he loves his work, his father is more important – and that means taking care of himself when he’s recovering from lifesaving surgery.

His father is seated in a chair, typing away at something on his laptop. The man has been at his side since he woke up, which was about… an hour ago.

It’s now somewhere after 10 PM.

“_Go get some rest.”_

It’s not like Dragunov is going to up and disappear the moment his father leaves. Well, he did consider that… but the idea got quickly squashed. He’d rather not tear his stitches and end up in the OR a second time – that’ll just delay his return to work.

“_It’s Friday night, and… I did some arrangements. Barring serious operations that requires my expertise, the other surgeons can take over the regular cases for a few days.”_

His father must have seen the surprised expression on Dragunov’s face – a rare thing as is – and chuckled. “_What? Do you expect me to leave so you can run away at the first chance you get?”_

“_You got me._” He’s not surprised that dad takes time off from work to take care of him, but he’s touched nonetheless. Especially after his heart almost stopped under dad’s scalpel. If the situation was reversed, he wouldn’t want to leave his father’s side either.

Dad affectionately ruffles his hair, the dark silky strands flowing through his fingers. If he was a cat, Dragunov is sure he would be purring; he loves the feeling whenever his father does it… not that he’d say it. “_So much for being the White Angel of Death._”

“_Not a bastion of morals._”

Little moments of banter like this are his favorite – warm, familiar and comfortable. When he was younger, the banter would be an endless stream of sass; he has gotten better over the years as he grew up and found that he is much more comfortable with honesty to his father. Though that didn’t stop the occasional snark from time to time, usually when he is frustrated or tired.

Dragunov finishes his food and gently lies back onto the bed. “_This is boring._”

“_I’ll get you something tomorrow. I recalled you wanting to get the novel that just came out?”_

Having to sit in one place for long periods of time has never sat well with Dragunov, even if said downtime is important – like medical leave. He knows it’s important to let himself heal up fully before heading back into battle, but knowing that his service is needed out there makes him itching for action.

_“Go back to sleep. It’s late._”

A blanket is pulled over his shoulders. Dragunov freezes briefly as his father kisses him on his forehead, though a smile crosses his lips when he realizes what it was.

“_Good night, angel._”

“_Night._”

The light goes out as his father closes the door behind him.

And he does, drifting off to sleep peacefully.

***

“_…Let me get this straight. You want to come back to the front._”

“_Yes sir._”

The general stares at the surgeon – and the proposal - in front of him for a long while. The legendary Angel of Mercy coming back to the front line as a medic? It sounds too good to be true.

“_What brings this on? I thought you wanted a quiet civilian life with family._”

The last time he talked with the surgeon in a professional capacity, it was him discharging the doctor from field service so he can spend more time with his wife and children. Word through the grapevines had it that the good doctor soon divorced afterwards and losing custody of his children in the process, but anything after that was unknown. It seems that the pain at losing his family pushed the surgeon into a secretive life.

The general isn’t complaining about the proposal – his men could always use a good medic, and this is one of the best in their history of field medicine – but he wonders why the doctor chose this time to return to duty. A decade after his departure.

“_That’s behind me now._”

He watches the doctor’s face as it morphs into one of determination.

Well, if the good doctor doesn’t have any reason to hold him back from taking care of troops on the front…

“_…Very well. Welcome back, Lieutenant._”

The Angel of Mercy is back.

***

_Someone has to make sure you don’t fall over dead in the line of duty, Sergei._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Dragunov's hair](https://konnestrasketch.tumblr.com/post/166692389843/did-some-first-grade-math-hair-calculations-and)


	3. Chapter 3

Sergei has fallen asleep when he returns to the room, having succumbed to the exhaustion from his still healing wounds.

He leans back in his chair and watches the gentle rise and fall of Sergei’s chest in silence, content to stand watch over his son.

It was too close. Just a little more and he would have lost him.

Logically, he knows why medical professionals are not allowed to work on their family: emotional bonds can screw up the ability to perform duty of care. However, he is the best in the field, and his son needed him. If he was a lesser man, he would have given up the task to another colleague… but he is no lesser man.

In any case, it is over. He did his duty, and his son is safe.

He can feel the exhaustion from the operation catching up with him. It’s quiet and comfortable, taking a break wouldn’t hurt. And Sergei will need him rested to care for him.

Sleep pulls him under as he closes his eyes.

***

He’s in a café.

It feels familiar; the old Russian style architecture, the pictures on the wall, the flower pots felt familiar. He must have visited it at some point, probably with Binah. She loved antique things.

There are two cups of coffee on the table. One in front of him, one in front of the opposing empty chair. His fingers gingerly probe the sides of the cups. Still warm.

He looks down at his hands; black coat, black leather gloves, and his favorite sweater. The closest he has to formal wear without being actually in his dress blues.

It's too quiet. He looks around and finds no one else. Just him.

Why is he here? He can’t recall why he’s in here. His memories are blurry when he tries to search for a reason to why he’s sitting at a table in the middle of an empty café, and he gives up.

Is he waiting for someone?

A bell rings, then the door to the café slides open.

A man in a suit enters, his steps slow and methodical, but confident.

There is a familiarity about this man that tugged at his mind, but he can’t pinpoint what it is. Not yet.

He starts mentally assessing the stranger as he walks to the chair in front of him and sits down.

The suit looks like it costed more than his yearly paycheck, so whoever this is, they are clearly not lacking in money. Dark hair, cut in a way that suggests professional work. And piercing blue eyes meeting his own, strange yet familiar at the same time-

“_Good day, doctor. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”_

Something in the pits of his stomach drops as he realizes who the man is reminding him of.

_Sergei._

This man has Sergei’s chilling blue eyes and the sharp curve of his face. Other than a few differences, Sergei is the spitting image of this man in appearance.

So they are related by blood most likely. The only things he knew about Sergei’s biological family were that his father died in a car accident during one of his business trips, and he was given up for adoption to get him away from his abusive mother. And after Sergei came into his care, the rest is history.

The uncanny resemblance is close enough to suspect immediate family.

Could this be his father?

The stranger is still looking intently at him, and he realized that he did not respond to the stranger’s query. “_I don’t believe we have met, Mister…?_”

“_My name is Anatoly Dragunov. I am- or was- Sergei’s birth father._”

Ah. “…_A pleasure to meet you, Mister Dragunov._”

“_Anatoly, please. Only my business partners called me Mister Dragunov._”

Everything feels so real. Yet at the same time suspicion nags in the back of his mind. “_To what do I owe the pleasure?_”

The last thing he remembered was falling asleep in Sergei’s hospital room.

Is he dreaming? It feels too real to be a dream, but at the same time he knew this should not be possible. He had never met Sergei’s birth father though… the man dying was the reason why he ended up taking Sergei in as his own.

So many mysteries with no answers.

The man- Anatoly- hesitates, before meeting his eyes again. The same intense gaze that Sergei has – but softer without the killing intent behind it. “_I just want to say… thank you. For taking care of Seryozha when I could not._”

“_You tried your best._” Sergei spoke fondly of the father that rescued him from his abusive mother in the few times he discussed his biological family. He was sure Anatoly tried to do right by his son, before the unfortunate accident ended his life.

“_I… was not as close to him as I had want to be.”_ Anatoly looks at the window next to them, before turning back. The guarded air around him seemed to drop, a businessman turning into a father discussing his son. “_I was not much of an affectionate person. When Seryozha needed me- needed my love, I could not give him the emotional bond he wanted. If he still resents me for it, I understand._”

He glances at the window, only to be met with a swath of white nothingness. So this is indeed a dream, then; he is dreaming about meeting his son’s long gone father. What an odd thing to dream about, if it was even possible. For all he knows, he could just be having some sort of delusion. “_Sergei loved you. You cared about him when his mother did not._”

“_I should have known that she was abusing him. Marrying her was, in hindsight, one of my worst decisions in life; my dear Seryozha was the only good thing to come out of it. I wish I could have spared him the pain that she inflicted on him… it was my fault everything turned out the way they did._”

It seems that the guilt of seemingly failing Sergei has consumed Anatoly in death.

Sadness crosses Anatoly’s face, and he briefly wished Sergei was here to tell his father otherwise.

He wonders if it would have been different had Sergei not lost his father, but that might meant he never joined Spetsnaz and instead having a, more or less, ordinary life. It’s hard to imagine Sergei Dragunov as anything other than the White Angel of Death, but maybe that’s because it was the only path Sergei had chosen for himself. No use worrying about what ifs when the present is what it is.

Anatoly sighs before taking a sip from his coffee. “_In any case, please tell Seryozha I’m proud of who he is. I may have helped bringing him into this world, but you raised him into the fine man he is today._”

He wraps his hands around his own cup, feeling the heat seeping through his gloves. Drinking coffee in a dream probably won’t do him any good, but the contact is calming. “_I think he knows that, even if he never got the chance to tell you.”_

“_He could be a little more careful to not send you to an early grave, though. He already lost me, he doesn’t need to lose you too._”

“_I will be here, should he ever need me._”

Anatoly’s smile is very similar to Sergei’s own when he genuinely smiled, though it was tainted with sorrow. “_Thank you. For everything you did.”_

He smiles back. “_No… thank you, for blessing us both with his existence._”

Becoming the future White Angel of Death’s adopted father had been so life changing for him. It was a blessing in many ways, and he found himself being thankful to whatever fate deciding to have him meet Sergei.

Sergei had grown up to become who he is now despite all the trauma he had endured in his life. Still a few rough edges here and there, but he’s confident; time and love will at least dull them, if not smooth them out. It has been a long journey since the day they found each other, but it was worth it.

The sound of bell ringing snaps him out of his brief funk, and-

Anatoly is gone.

The chair is back where it was before the man came in, and the cup of coffee sits innocently on the table untouched.

As if no one had been sitting there at all.

***

He snaps awake.

The darkness of the hospital room greets him. He's back in Moscow, next to his son's bedside. Not some strange location that he can't even remember where.

He fumbles for his watch, and it reads 5:03 AM. He was asleep for quite a few hours.

The memory of Anatoly is still fresh in his mind, and he briefly wonders if it was even a dream at all.

Sergei is still sound asleep on the bed, oblivious to the sudden waking of his father. Normally Sergei is a light sleeper, but life-saving surgery takes a lot out of everyone – even the White Angel of Death – and he is thankful for it somewhat. Explaining to his son that he had a talk with the deceased father in his dream would have been awkward.

He leans back on the pillow and considers the memory, before finally putting them away in a corner of his mind.

It did not change anything, anyhow. He will just have to make sure that Sergei knows he is loved for every day he is alive.

To give him the love that Anatoly would have wanted him to have.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos feed my will to work. :3
> 
> Visit me on [Tumblr](https://sintharius.tumblr.com/)!


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